


Highways and Headstones

by The_Phantom_Prince



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 14:01:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Phantom_Prince/pseuds/The_Phantom_Prince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Of course, Castiel had always known that mortality was an inevitable end for any hunter, for any human, but the extent of the meaning of that knowledge had never fully registered to him where the Winchesters were concerned."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Highways and Headstones

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by artwork by Unbefreakinlivable on tumblr. http://unbefreakinlivable.tumblr.com/post/32399679802/i-believe-that-cas-despite-being-an-angel-would

As Castiel stared down at the single word that had been carefully etched into the slab of concrete in front of him, he could have sworn that he had never, in all of his millennia of existence, felt something so painful. He remembered the feeling of his grace being ripped from his being when he had fallen all those years ago and he remembered the agony of that very same grace being forced back into his mortal vessel when he was brought back. Still, Castiel would have taken those without a moment of hesitation above the crippling devastation that had been coursing through him for nearly a week week.

Castiel had spent the better part of the first two days after the crash in near catatonia. There was no one to alert of the matter; all of their friends, Bobby, sherif Mills, even Garth, who had always seemed to be able to manage a way out of his messes, had already fallen victim to the fate that eventually finds everyone with any relationship to the hunting life.

So he had sat.

By the side of the abandoned highway that the three of them had been traveling when their beloved Impala had turned against them and flipped, Castiel had sat next to the wreckage that had long since been reduced to smolder in the absence of firemen and police officers and paramedics and whoever else was supposed to show up at a car crash but didn't because they had been driving almost a hundred miles away from the nearest town and Castiel hadn't been able to bare the thought of abandoning the boys' broken bodies on the side of the road while he went looking for help that was already too late.

So he had sat.

Nearly fifty feet away from the empty remains of the Impala and barely fifty inches away from the broken shells of men that had been the Winchesters only hours ago, Castiel had sat, knowing that he should do something with them. He should bury them. That's what a good friend would do. He should salt and burn them. That's what a good hunter would do. But, if he was being honest with himself, Castiel knew that, try as he might, with the numerous times that he had screwed up and let them down, he had never been a great friend and he had been an even worse hunter.

So he had sat.

Silently, motionlessly, and thoughtlessly, Castiel had sat for nearly two days as the reality began to fully sink in. Of course, Castiel had always known that mortality was an inevitable end for any hunter, for any human, but the extent of the meaning of that knowledge had never fully registered to him where the Winchesters were concerned. After everything that they had been through, after everything that he had been through, after all the times that God had shown mercy or pity or whatever it was that had compelled him to bring each of them back time and time again, to save them, Castiel just couldn't comprehend why his Father would allow things to come to such an cruel end now.

Once the shock had worn off, Castiel had spent the next three days begging God to just brink the boys back one more time, to just give him one more chance to protect his charges, his friends, his family. When this request was met with nothing more than a gentle gust of wind, Castiel had tried a new approach. He had begged God to at least make him human once again so that he might have a chance to follow the boys. This, too, was responded to with silence.

Finally, Castiel had risen to his feet and walked over to the Winchesters and stooped down to gingerly gather the bodies of his friends into his arms. A second later, he was kneeling in the dirt of the field behind what remained of Singer Salvage Yard, after a fire and several years of neglect following Bobby's death.

It had only taken a matter of minutes for Castiel to make the preparations for what needed to be done, to gather salt and matches because he felt like doing this the old fashioned way. Castiel knew that he could have disposed of the Winchesters' remains without the formalities but he felt that to do so would have been an insult to their memory. They deserved a proper send off. After all, that's what a good hunter, a good friend, would do.

Even once everything was ready, though, Castiel had found that he wasn't. It took several more hours to actually go through with the deed. Castiel wasn't sure what exactly he was waiting for. A sign, maybe? The right moment, perhaps? Or was he just hoping that maybe God would change his mind before the point of no return.

Whatever it was that Castiel was waiting for, it never came and, eventually, he had to force himself to drop the burning match.

He had stood there watching the flames rage and waiting for the fire to burn itself out to ash, which didn't take nearly as long as the Impala had. Once it had, though, Castiel returned to the site of the crash and brought the Impala back as well. He left it in a lonely corner of the salvage yard, set apart from the rest of the junk cars.

It had pained Castiel to see to see; the car that the boys, and himself, had cared for so dearly sitting in a half-crumpled mess, knowing that that there was no one that would be fixing her up with time around. Castiel couldn't do it; Dean hand never thought that he would need to show him how. That was just one more thing to add to the quickly growing list of things that Castiel couldn't fix.

Finally, Castiel had managed to hunt out a single good sized slab of concrete from the yard. It would have been easier to simply find a headstone from somewhere in town but, somehow, Castiel didn't think that the boys would have appreciated that as much. He also thought about making a wooden cross like the one that Sam had made for Dean's first grave so many years ago but, even for an angel like him, albeit a poor excuse for one, Castiel didn't that that either of the brothers would have found that very appropriate anymore.

Now here he was, standing in the rain in front of the headstone that simply read _Winchester_ , as he hadn't been able to think of anything more to add that would make a difference. After all, he was the only one that would ever see it. Castiel's hands were buried in the pockets of his overcoat, his right hand wrapped tightly around the amulet that he had removed from Dean's neck before the burning.

Castiel knew he wouldn't be able to keep it; it was too risky. Still, he hadn't been able to let it go just yet. Now, though, he knew he couldn't put it off any longer pulled it, along with his lighter, out of his pocket. Shielding them both from the steady downpour and flipping the top open, Castiel let the small flame engulf the necklace. As it burned, Castiel could almost feel the very core of himself burning away alongside it. The suffocating heartache clawed at his chest and gripped at his throat and, in that instant, Castiel understood why Dean had once not wanted to be able to feel anything because now Castiel wanted just that, to not be able to feel this gutting pain. But he could and he did.

So he cried.


End file.
